


Courtship Ritual Roulette

by Tierfal



Series: Documented Human Behavior [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Angst, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, First Date, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which several diverse pledges are fulfilled.</p>
<p>[Minor spoilers for Brotherhood.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courtship Ritual Roulette

**Author's Note:**

> My extremely late 520 Day offering is some _unabashedly_ unoriginal fluff to my latest OTP theme song. XD (If the [video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a_XgQhMPeEQ) doesn't make you kind of happy and sad at the same time, give it a few more years. :'3) I would like to write ~~teh pr0nzorz!~~ a final installment of this little series, but considering that this piece of crap took three and a half weeks to write – and another two weeks just to find the time to edit – I shall not be making any promises. XD tl;dr work and Shakespeare ate my fandom!life. :c
> 
>  
> 
> _Once I thought my innocence was gone_   
> _Now I know that happiness goes on_   
> _That’s where you found me_   
> _When you put your arms around me_   
> _I haven’t been there for the longest time_
> 
> – “The Longest Time” – Billy Joel –

Roy adjusts his collar and makes a valiant effort not to entertain the worst-case scenarios. Alas, the noble striving is all in vain—as he watches his own fingertips smoothly straightening the knot of his narrow tie, the doubts unfurl like the glistening tendrils of a sundew, waiting to make a meal of him.

Ed won’t be like Hughes. Ed won’t drag him in and coax him close and wrap him up in a warmth so complete it’s almost stifling; Ed won’t fulfill him far beyond his wildest projections of happiness; Ed won’t offer everything and then change his mind and sweep it all away. Ed won’t discover too late that the things they want are irreconcilably disparate. Ed won’t cast him aside for quiche and cherry pie and a gold band and the first photographs of a pink-faced wail. Ed won’t believe him when he says _It’s all right; I understand_.

Ed won’t be like Riza. Ed won’t find him so transparent that there’s no magic left; Ed won’t know his every move before he makes it. Ed won’t read his mind and recognize the true depth of his weakness; Ed won’t have to love him in _spite_ of it. Ed won’t guilt-trip him towards greatness and shepherd him away from the precipice of despair. Ed won’t look at him and see every last dark corner; Ed won’t realize how deep the shadows run; Ed won’t have had the same nightmares, every single one of them, scene by scene.

Ed will know him well enough, but not _too_ well—won’t he? Is it really too much to ask?

Well, fretting about it in advance isn’t going to change the outcome.  Usually Roy’s borderline-compulsive habit of contingency planning and his talent for nudging people’s minds until they think his intentions were their own all along makes romance so simple that it’s rather boring, but this time…

Ed takes pride—takes unholy _glee_ —in defying Roy’s powers of prediction. Ed is a wild card; Ed is dice weighted slightly wrong; Ed is a question mark in red ink smeared all across a page of meticulously-ordered notes. Ed is not to be trifled with. Ed unsettles him, and after all this time, it’s so _exciting_ to be _surprised_ —

Ed makes him happy, in ways he doesn’t fully understand. Isn’t that enough to justify the risk?

Roy forces himself to stop fussing with his collar, curling his fingers around the steering wheel instead.

The side door out of the barracks swings open.  There is a long pause, and then a few thick leather fingers appear and grip the doorframe for… leverage?

What seems to be a hip emerges next, followed by most of a thigh, followed by part of a chest, followed by the remainder of Edward Elric, compelled by the force of his brother’s steel foot.

Ed flails, staggers, rights himself, pouts, turns, notices Roy’s car, and freezes.  He’s dressed in charcoal-gray slacks and a fitted waistcoat to match, with a crisp white shirt and a beautiful, wonderful, delectable tie—silk, if Roy’s not mistaken, in a rich dark emerald shade. His hair is tied up and back in a ponytail, which somehow makes him look older and more delicate at once—and which makes the hair itself look longer and smoother, so that Roy positively _yearns_ to run his fingers through it from top to bottom.

He imagines he’ll have to earn it, though. For now, he leans across the car and rolls down the passenger side window to call across the small stretch of lawn:

“Coming, Fullmetal?”

Ed flushes, glances back, gets the barracks door slammed in his face, pushes his hands into his pockets, squares his shoulders, and trudges over to the car. Roy takes advantage of this complex process to hop out, dart around the hood, and hold the car door open. Ed hesitates, fidgets, and glances up at him guardedly.

“I’d figured you were gonna stand me up,” Ed says.

Roy blinks. “I do have _some_ class. Besides, it looked more like you were avoiding me than the other way around—did Alphonse have to _kick_ you out the door?”

“Define ‘kick’,” Ed says. “More like… ‘vigorous shove exerted with the foot’ than ‘kick’. And it’s a superposition thing. If I didn’t come down and see whether you’d stood me up or not, there’d be no scientific proof one way or another, so nobody would be sure which outcome had occurred. Until the moment of discovery, essentially they’re _both_ happening, so if you delay that moment indefinitely, it’s like they both took place—and at the same time, neither did. So I could just go with ‘neither’, and then it’s like you never stood me up _or_ came and proved me wrong for thinking you were going to stand me up.”

Roy makes a valiant effort to parse a word of that. “I… see. If it’s any consolation, at this point, the only possible outcome of the evening is that we’re going to have an excellent meal.”

“I don’t think you understand quantum mechanics,” Ed says as he climbs into the car.

“I don’t think so either,” Roy says, and shuts the door.

Ed is eyeing Roy as he settles behind the wheel again, and his own—albeit significantly less extraordinary—scientific curiosity gets the better of him. Women tend to warm up instantly to superficial compliments; Ed will surely buck that trend on principle, but what _will_ he do?

“Your hair’s different,” Roy says.

Ed scowls. “Yeah, well, I didn’t figure I was actually _going_ anywhere, and once Al started tryin’ to manhandle my ass out the door, I didn’t have time to braid it. If it bothers you so much, I’ll take it down; here—”

He reaches for the band, right fingers cautious, but Roy catches his forearm first.

“Leave it,” Roy says. “It suits you.”

Ed flushes, slouches, and scuffs his toe at the car door. “Whatever. Are we gonna go, or are we gonna sit here, parked and talkin’ about my stupid hair?”

Obediently Roy starts the engine and pulls out into the street. “It’s not stupid. You have beautiful hair.”

“Okay, _hold_ up,” Ed says, and a glance away from the road confirms that the boy is glowering mightily. “What the fuck is this?”

“What the fuck is what?” Roy asks, sparing a bit of attention for the task of driving again.

“ _This_ ,” Ed says, making an extremely unhelpful sweeping gesture. “You being all nicey-nice and shit. You’re only nicey-nice when you want something. What do you want?”

“I just want to take you to dinner,” Roy says. _And possibly to reconstruct my whole world around you, so that my universe trembles in time with your heartbeat, and my happiness hinges on your smile—but Edward, my dear Edward, you haven’t the faintest idea how heroically I am fighting that temptation._

“You want to get into my pants, don’t you?” Ed asks. “Well, tough shit, Colonel. Al warned me about guys like you.”

“Did he,” Roy says, because Roy has no idea what else to say that won’t garner a metal fist in a tender place.

“He reads a lot,” Ed says. “And he actually _gets_ people. I’m fucking clueless with people; they don’t follow any _rules_. I don’t know how he does it.”

“I sometimes think that Alphonse’s greatest fear is that he’ll forget how it feels to be human,” Roy says. “Not that he’s inhuman—but the physical cues and the visceral impulses are integral parts of the human experience, and he’s already so terrified of isolation… I think he observes people all the more closely and tries to reason out what makes them tick so that he’ll know how to be ordinary again when the time comes.”

The pause lasts long enough that Roy neglects the road again in favor of glancing over to find Ed gazing out the window, arms folded, head tilted just enough to make his bangs hide his eyes.

“Thanks,” Ed says after another moment still. “For saying ‘when’.”

“Thank you for being here,” Roy says.

“I swore to it,” Ed says.

“It was a bet made when we were both tipsy,” Roy says. “I wouldn’t have held it against you not to honor it.”

“ _I_ would’ve held it against me,” Ed says.

Is it that purity in him that makes Roy’s arms ache for him? Is it some sort of whispered promise of redemption? Is it some twisted syllogism in his mind whereby he can be good again if Edward Elric loves him back?

It also most likely has something to do with the fact that having his tongue in Ed’s mouth was spectacular, and he would very much appreciate the opportunity to experience that again.

He’s only a man, after all.

“Besides,” Ed says, “I don’t make a habit of turning down free food.”

“That philosophy will get you a long way in life,” Roy says.

“So where are we going, again?” Ed asks.  “You said Cretan food, right?”

Ed’s food-related memory is astounding for someone who routinely ‘forgets’ appointments with his C.O.  “I did.  It’s a wonderful little spot; I hope you’ll like it.”

“Again with the nicey-nice,” Ed mutters.

Roy resists the urge to clutch the wheel until his knuckles burst out from his skin and ping off of the ceiling.  “We _are_ on a date, Edward.”

Ed scoffs.  “What, and that minor and temporary alteration of emotional environment instantly changes your basic personality and turns you into Mr. Gooey-Eyes Mushy-Pants?”

“I beg your pardon,” Roy says.  “‘ _Mushy-Pants_ ’ is a bit much, isn’t it?  As you can see, my trousers are of a perfectly normal consistency.”

As Ed snickers, Roy starts to think about it properly—to think about _Ed_ properly; to think about youth and hormones in a general sense, and about Ed’s trademarked brand of overcompensating insecurity in particular.

“Edward,” he says, phrasing the conclusion as a question, because everyone within the remotest earshot of the office knows how the Fullmetal Alchemist handles accusations, “have you ever been on a date before?”

“What?” Ed says.  “Of course I’ve been on _dates_.  Tons of dates.  Billions, probably.”

“You must have a very tight schedule,” Roy says.

“Shut the fuck up,” Ed says.  He takes a deep breath, releases it slowly, and hikes his not-too-filthy boots up onto the recently-polished dash.  “So what if I’ve never been on a date?  I’m fucking _busy_.  I’ve got better things to do than fiddle around with flowers and all of that crap.  I’ve got more important stuff to worry about.”

“I know you do,” Roy says softly.  _The things you worry about would drive most grown men mad._

“Besides,” Ed says, and then he hesitates, and then his voice lowers to a mumble.  “You’re the first person who’s ever been dumb enough to ask.”

“Dumb?” Roy asks.  “I beg to differ.  I’ll have you know that I am renowned for my exacting standards.”

“You’re renowned for trying to confuse the crap out of people with big words,” Ed says.

“I concede the point,” Roy says.

“Are we there yet?” Ed asks.

“If we were there,” Roy says, “we would have stopped.”

“I don’t believe it,” Ed says. “You’re a military rank-climbing prodigy, a State Alchemist who makes things go ‘fwoom’, _and_ a philosopher? Is there anything Roy Mustang can’t do?”

“Out-eat you,” Roy says.

“Touché,” Ed says. “How much further do we have to go?”

“As far as is required.”

“Mother _fucker_. You’re too good at this game.”

“I’ll try to take that as a compliment,” Roy says.

He is, after all, uncannily suited to games—to tricks, to riddles, to stratagems. And for a master of diversions, what could be more terrifying than having to play for keeps?

“You’re a shit driver,” Ed says equably, in the sort of tone most people reserve for _Pleasant weather we’re having, isn’t it?_ “I hope you have to parallel-park.”

“I’d let you drive,” Roy says, “but I suspect your feet wouldn’t reach the pedals.”

Ed grins. “You’re a dead man, Colonel.”

“Not just yet,” Roy says.

It doesn’t feel real, though, any of it—parallel-parking serenaded by Ed’s effervescent laughter; hurrying to try to open the car door for him and getting bodily struck with it instead; wheezing out a dismissal of the squeaked apology; taking Ed’s arm and reveling in the way he blushes to the roots of his hair. The maître d’ has seen Roy several times before and knows him better still by reputation; they’re shepherded to a table in the back where no one will notice if they share forks, or glances, or possibly more. Roy is torn between relief at the weight of observers’ gazes lifting from them and a pang of fear that Ed will think it was orchestrated—will think that Roy’s ashamed of him.

It’s the opposite, of course. Ed is radiant, is ravishing, is rapturous. Ed is a miracle of candlelight; the rim of a wineglass was developed specifically to be grazed by Ed’s lip.

Wait a damn second.

“Careful,” Roy says, moving the bottle to the other side of the table—as if the powers of gods and demons, let alone setting the alcohol out of reach, could stop Ed once he’s got a fool idea in his head.

“I can have nice booze in a nice restaurant if I want to,” Ed says, sitting straighter. “I’m a grown-up. Screw you.”

“Grown, perhaps,” Roy says, “but not _up_ —”

Ed snarls, and Roy wants to take him up on the final statement here and now—that feral streak in this gold-and-silver boy is devastating at the best of times; right now it’s _obliterative_ —

“Whatever,” Ed says, avoiding Roy’s gaze, but Roy’s already seen the telltale gleam of amusement in his eye. “The opinion of a man who thinks uniforms are more versatile than custom-made coats doesn’t concern me.”

“That’s a pity,” Roy says. “I was going to regale you with several more opinions, on such diverse topics as how excellent the baklava is at this establishment and how stunning you look tonight.”

Ed’s cheeks heat again. Roy wants to kiss the color off of their gentle curves, then nose gently along their hollows down to the line of Ed’s ever-strengthening jaw.

“You’re such a fucking flatterer,” Ed says. “No wonder chicks fall at your feet.”

“Fortunately,” Roy says, “you wouldn’t have far to fall, given how close you are to the grou—”

Ed’s balled-up linen napkin hits him squarely in the face, and the laughter that pours out of him feels bright and genuine and _free_.

All things considered, Roy Mustang is not in much of a position to joke about falling.

The food is magnificent, of course; the waiter is going to get a fabulous tip for correctly interpreting Roy’s furtive hand signals and eyebrow semaphore and absconding with the wine bottle before Ed has a chance to serve himself a second glass. A mouth full of flavor and a heart full of light—Roy thinks heaven must be rather a lot like this.

“So what happens now?” Ed says when Roy has paid and settled back, utterly satisfied. There’s a glimmer in the boy’s eye which is meaningful to say the least—but he doesn’t know what he’s asking, and Roy’s not going to risk overwhelming him now.

“I was thinking we might take a stroll in the park,” Roy says.

“You’re so clichéd,” Ed says, but he’s wearing the worst poker face on the planet, and it’s obvious he’s pleased.

“I prefer ‘classic’,” Roy says. “If nothing else, it should help to sober you up, which will greatly reduce the likelihood of your brother ‘accidentally’ putting a spike through my eye for taking you out and getting you tipsy.”

“You kidding?” Ed asks, standing up and smoothing out his lusciously well-fitted clothes. “Al’s over the _moon_ that I’m doing something normal like going out on a date on a Saturday night. Last weekend I was transmuting liquid soap into breath-mints.”

“Your boredom must be a thing to behold,” Roy says, and this time, when he offers his elbow, Ed seizes it and clings to it like a mussel to a rock.

“Shit,” Ed says as they step out into the night. “See, this is why you oughta appreciate the coat.”

“I do appreciate it,” Roy says. “I would appreciate it even more if it didn’t obstruct my view of your exquisite backside.”

Ed stops in mid-stride to stare at him, and Roy capitalizes on that opportunity to slip an arm around his waist.

“You _perv_ ,” Ed says.

“Aren’t you warmer now?” Roy asks, brushing a finger across his swiftly-reddening face.

“Aw, jeez,” Ed mumbles, but he curls a little closer all the same.

Oh, it doesn’t get much better than this—than moonlight, topiaries, a silver cobblestone walk, pale stars, and _Ed_.

“So,” Ed says. “So… y’know, all that stuff you said the other night.”

“What about it?” Roy asks.

“When do you follow through with all that shit?” Ed asks.

“Not tonight,” Roy says softly.

“Why the hell not?” Ed asks, tugging on his arm. “I’m not drunk at all, ’cause I can hold my liquor, _thank you_ , and for fuck’s sake, Colonel—you _promised_.”

“I promised you that I’d teach you to make love,” Roy says, and _never_ has there been a sweeter torment than the way Ed shivers. “I didn’t promise a timeline.”

“Bastard,” Ed says. “Am I gonna have to borrow a gun from Lieutenant Hawkeye to menace you with any time I want you to work on a deadline?”

“Certainly not,” Roy says. “It’s much more likely that you’ll have to shoot me to get me to leave you alone.”

Ed scrunches his nose up so adorably that Roy’s heart actually hurts. “Then—”

“It’s tawdry to have sex on the first date,” Roy says.

“It wouldn’t be tawdry,” Ed says. “It’d be… taw… some. Tawesome. Tawdrawesome. Tawdriffic. Y’know, it’s kind of hypocritical of you to take some kinda shitty high road on this after you _seduced_ me in _public_ in front of my _brother_.”

“You seduced me into seducing you,” Roy says.

“Horseshit,” Ed says equably. “That’s not even possible.”

“You are a virtuoso of the impossible,” Roy says. “I wasn’t going to let myself go near you, but with the way you were looking at me, I couldn’t help myself.”

“Are you seriously trying to make this _my_ fault?” Ed asks.

“‘Fault’?” Roy says. “I… feel that ‘fault’ connotes a very negative kind of accountabili—”

“I need a drink,” Ed says. “A real drink. None of your crap-ass crushed-grape shit.”

“I am categorically not providing you with more alcohol,” Roy says.

“You are so,” Ed says, grinning up at him and nestling in a little closer, and, oh, _God_ , he knows what power he has, and Roy is entirely doomed and severely fucked. “You’ve got a weak spot for me, or we wouldn’t be here. It’s the only logical explanation for the anomalies in your behavior.”

Roy can’t decide which part of that is more horrible. “I,” he says slowly, “would like it in writing.”

Ed blinks.

“That the drink was your idea,” Roy says. “So that Alphonse may have mercy enough at least to make my execution swift.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Ed says. “And I’m right—aren’t I?”

Roy swallows and scrounges up some courage. “You are.”

Ed pauses for a long moment. Ed, of course, pauses the way he does everything—absolutely wholeheartedly, meaning that a pause in conversation requires him to stop walking and to breathe very quietly as he thinks. Surely some great revelation is forthcoming. Surely this silence heralds a discovery the likes of which the world has never seen and can’t begin to prepare t—

“I don’t get it,” Ed says. “Nobody… no one ever thinks about me like… thinks about me _positively_. Not… _all_ positively. There’re always conditions— _Ed’d be cool if he wasn’t so normal-sized_ , or _I’d like him if he wasn’t all high-strung all the time_. I hate that one; it’s not like I fucking _chose_ to have this clock running in my head all the time, and so much stuff just _hanging_ … but—I mean, the only person who doesn’t put restrictions on it is Al, and even he must… I mean, it must be all tangled up in the fact that I did that to him. I took his life away. So it’s—weird. That you’d… want… me.”

“People adore you,” Roy says.  “I’m not just saying that to placate you—I’m saying it because it’s true.  I know your ego doesn’t need the help, but… Edward, every time you come bounding back from some backwoods town you had to blow up half of before you could set it to rights, I get calls and letters demanding reimbursement—and _forbidding_ me from punishing ‘that wonderful young man, who did the very best he could’.  You wear your heart on your sleeve, and you let them _watch_ you commit all of it to every cause.  You didn’t earn the title of the ‘People’s Alchemist’ idly, Ed; it was bestowed on you because you’re _different_ —because you’re compassionate, and no one expects that from a soldier.  It was given to you because you’re not here for the glory, and you don’t wear your medals; you don’t flash the stars; you don’t pull rank.  You’re here because you have a goal, yes, but you _dedicate_ yourself to other people’s problems.  You make their troubles your own, and you give it your all, and that makes them believe in you.  You inspire people.”  Roy considers the starlight and decides to be brave.  “You inspire _me_.”

Ed hesitates, shifting slightly against Roy’s side, and chews on his lip—which is really rather distracting, and really rather tantalizing, and really rath—

“Jeez,” Ed says at last, gaze flicking outward over the path.  “I’m definitely gonna need a drink if you keep talking like that.”

“As long as I get my signed affidavit,” Roy says.

“You’re so weird when you’re not in the spotlight,” Ed says.  “It’s kind of great.  C’mon, there’s all kinds of bars up this way.  Don’t ask me how I know that.”

“How do you know that?” Roy asks.

Ed laughs.  “You must be getting deaf in your old age.”

Roy pats Ed briskly on the top of the head, which has the desired effect of prompting a growl that makes Roy’s very skin tingle warmly.  “I believe this is an instance of the deliberately contrary pot calling the deliberately contrary kettle black.”

“Of all the shit to have in common with my date,” Ed mutters.

“It could be worse,” Roy says.  “We could both be woefully undersized and have ridiculous ha—”

Another thing they have in common is excellent reflexes, which is why Roy manages to duck the metal fist and then elude capture as Ed chases him all the way to the row of pubs opposite.

“ _Bastard_ ,” Ed pants, kicking halfheartedly at Roy’s ankle when they stop on the sidewalk, both bent double.

“I’m sorry,” Roy says.

Ed rolls those glorious eyes.  “Like hell you are.”

“I mean it,” Roy says.  “I just can’t help myself; there’s so much _passion_ in you, and opportunities to provoke it have so far proven themselves irresistible.”

“Try harder,” Ed says, planting his hands on his hips, but there’s a new layer of pink in his cheeks.  “All right, this bar looks sufficiently awesome.”

Oh, dear Lord.

“No,” Roy says lightly, “don’t go to that one.  You’ll hate that one.  It’s filthy, the prices are outrageous, the service is abominable, and the clientele is downright offensive.”

Ed’s grin is effortlessly beautiful and unwittingly perilous.  “You do realize that you hating it probably guarantees I’ll like it, right?”

“Hell,” Roy says—rather eloquently, he feels.

“ _Roy_!” a familiar voice squeals, and in that single syllable, he is forsaken.

Ed whirls on his right heel, hands swinging up to bring his palms together, but Roy catches his shoulder just before the whole block gets the alchemical explosion treatment.

“Alyssa,” Roy says, trying not to let the fight-or-flight battle raging in his head filter through to his voice. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Uh huh,” Alyssa says, beaming, and Ed’s arm tenses in Roy’s grip. “Come on in, already. Who’s this?”

Since the end of days has duly arrived, Roy supposes he might as well embrace it. He slides his arm around Ed’s waist and levelly meets Alyssa’s gaze. “This is Edward.”

Her eyes light up. “ _The_ Edward? State-Alchemist-prodigy-Edward? Writing-another-report-about-Edward-Edward? Clearly-there’s-a-lot-of-sexual-tension-no-one’s-addressing-Edward?”

Roy despises the woman’s gift for masking her insight in an airheaded appearance. “Unless there is another Edward who fits all of those criteria,” he says, “I believe we’re referring to the same one.”

Ed is staring openly. “Who _are_ you, lady?”

“ _Roy_ ,” Alyssa says. “Talking about this place like that is bad enough, but you didn’t even _tell_ him about us?”

“That’s rather the point of a secret,” Roy says.

Ed eyes him. “You’re pretty damn good at secrets.”

“Edward,” Roy says, “meet Alyssa, a distinguished member of my extremely covert network of civilian informants. Alyssa, meet a compromised operation.”

“Your worrying puts old women to shame,” Ed says, betrayed by the beginnings of a grin. “I’ve got some experience keepin’ shit under wraps, y’know.”

“Touché,” Roy says.

“Come _on_ ,” Alyssa says. “Stop standing there like strangers, wouldya? Edward—or, wait, do I call you ‘Major’?” She giggles at Ed’s instantaneous expression of abject horror and disgust. “Well—what’s your poison, honey?”

“Right now,” Ed says, hip brushing Roy’s, and _God_ , that feels beautiful, “the strongest thing you’ve got.”

Tragically, Roy has to release him in order to hold the door. Ed frowns at him; Alyssa curtsies. Roy clears his throat as Ed goggles at the muted cabaret interior, presumably trying even now to reinterpret all of Roy’s actions through this new environmental lens. “I want that signed confession from you while you can still write.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, face aglow, eyes such a stunning shade of amber that Roy’s heart clenches _tight_ , “and I want a pony. Get ready to be disappointed.”

It occurs to Roy that Ed’s natural gift for unrelenting banter is one of the many features that makes him a terrible employee and a thrilling date.

“ _Sweetie_!” someone cries, and Roy braces himself for the considerable likelihood that this night—and the several thousand embarrassing revelations it will surely contain—will turn Ed off of him once and for all. This could be it. This could be all he gets. This could be the start and the end of it, the taste of sublimity that lingers poignant for a while and then abandons him to bitter memory and a haunted hint of broken joy—

“You’ve been holding out on us,” Claire says, sashaying over to pull up a chair, “not that that’s anything new.”

“It’s not like that,” Roy says.

From behind him, absolutely ineluctable: “Not like what, kiddo?”

Ed has dropped into a chair at one of the tables near the bar. He looks up at Madame Christmas and, curiously, does not seem to register that Roy’s life has ended.

“Good evening, Madame,” Roy says, keeping his voice as steady as is humanly possible with his heart plummeting like this. “This is Edward Elric. I think that perhaps he and I should be going, while we can still be accompanied by the tattered remains of my dignity.”

“Good to meetcha,” Madame Christmas says, blithely ignoring him and tipping her cigarette towards Ed. “I’m Roy’s mom.”

Ed’s eyes go so wide that Roy can see the twirls of silver smoke reflected in them. “ _Seriously_?”

Chris Mustang holds up a hand. “On my honor, babycakes.”

Roy would be summarily eviscerated for uttering such a pet name, but Ed doesn’t appear to be perturbed by this particular iteration.

“Stories,” Ed says. “I need stories. You must have a few that’re humiliating as _hell_.”

Roy’s unrelentingly evil surrogate mother grins. “Where do you want me to start?”

“I need _all_ the dirt,” Ed says.  “I need, like, a mudbath.”

Roy mustn’t think about it.

“I need an _avalanche_.”

Madame Christmas takes a long drag on her cigarette. Fortunately, she has the grace to blow the stream of smoke well clear of Ed’s face, or Roy would be obligated to give her another lengthy presentation on why inhaling tar cannot possibly be salubrious, and breathing it on other people is practically assault.

“You don’t say,” Madame Christmas says. “You got five hours and a good memory?”

Ed’s eyes are fixated on the bane of Roy’s existence; he grabs blindly for Roy’s sleeve. “Hey. Call Al and tell him I’ll be late.”

“I am not going to stand here and be slandered,” Roy says.

“Take a seat, kiddo,” Madame Christmas says.

“This is the best night ever,” Ed says.  He looks like he means it, which is tragic on too many levels to list.  “I bet you were an ugly baby.  Did you have an awkward teenage phase where you were all knees and elbows and zits and stuff?  Were you super-fat as a kid?”

“ _No_ ,” Roy says.

“He did have a cowlick,” Alyssa pipes up.

“I did _not_ ,” Roy says.

“Did so,” Claire says.

“It never really went away,” Madame Christmas says, because apparently no one loves Roy or ever has.  “It just metamorphosed into that little bit at the front there that never lies down.”

“It’s like a beautiful cowlick butterfly,” Alyssa sighs.

Is ‘familicide’ a word?

“Let me get the photographs,” Claire says.

At this point, any judge in Amestris would take Roy’s side.

In the end, the better portion of an hour passes in the unmitigated torment that is sitting idly by whilst Ed pages through tome-sized photograph albums documenting all of the most mortifying moments of Roy’s childhood.  Ed downs three of Alyssa’s favorite vanilla-vodka-peppermint shots over the course of his engrossment; for his part, Roy probably would have cleared the closest shelf of all of its whiskey if he wasn’t responsible for driving Edward home.

By the time he’s reaching the pictures from military academy enrollment, however, Ed is curled up and snuggling into Roy’s arm where it’s wrapped around his shoulders, so Roy supposes he’d best admit that it’s not _all_ bad.

Carefully—and with extremely impressive control for a tipsy teenager—Ed lifts the film and slides out the photograph of when Roy donned the uniform for the first time.  Perhaps the wine at dinner was stronger than Roy realized; he can’t help wondering—does it count as ‘the first time’ if he’s never _really_ taken the damn thing off since?

Ed’s quiet for a long moment, metal fingertips gingerly pressing the glossy corner.  “How old were you?”

“Eighteen,” Roy says.

“Why’d you do it?” Ed murmurs, and Roy knows that what he’s really asking is _What in the world could make you sign your soul away to this if you had a choice?_

“I had grand dreams,” Roy says. “I wanted to change things, mend things, build things. I wanted power. I think that’s part of what drew me to alchemy, at first; it’s a creative _force_. But—the way I learned it, at least—alchemy was a kind of power that was very… contained. It’s circular; you experiment, and you learn, and then you use what you learn to design more experiments. It’s a means to its own end, but it doesn’t _go_ anywhere. And the military offered me power with a direction—power with a _purpose_.”

“Power in chains,” Ed says. “Power under orders. Power in a straightjacket. Power on a choke-leash. Power with restrictions which have footnotes which lead to appendices. Power that has to be approved, stamped, signed, and filed alphabetically. Dog-power, and most of those dogs get neute—”

“Point taken,” Roy says. “Unfortunately, I was young, and significantly less searingly brilliant than I am now, and I didn’t have the slightest idea what would come of it. I committed without comprehending the gravity or the permanence of that decision, and by the time I understood what I had been getting into, I was already entrenched.”

_And when I’d learned to use what power this hell had to offer,_ he does not say, _I dragged you down here with me, knowing full well what it would do to you._

Ed sets the picture down and gazes at it for another moment. “At least you’re not one of those stupid stubborn assholes who can’t ever admit they were wrong about something.”

That may be the Edward Elric version of encouragement. Roy always believed those legends that it existed.

Before Roy can make much headway drawing new short puns up from the well of existential crises in his head, Ed is nestling in and starting to nuzzle at his neck.

“An’ anyway,” Ed says, “it got us here, in the end, and here is a pretty fucking awesome place to be right this minute.”

So much for snark; Roy’s throat seems to be malfunctioning rather seriously.

“Hang on,” Ed says. “I gotta pee.”

…never mind.

As Ed flails his way to his feet and staggers off towards the restroom, Roy gingerly returns the photograph to its place in the album. _Those who forget the past,_ they say—although Roy’s found that ‘they’ never seem to be much of any help in the midst of the maelstrom.

“Well,” Madame Christmas says, leaning over the bar to arch an eyebrow at him. “Interesting choice.”

“He’s sweet,” Alyssa says brightly.

“He’s flexible,” Claire says. “I’ve seen pictures.”

“I think he’ll be good for you,” Madame Christmas says. “Something about the way you look at each other.”

“Is that your way of saying I can keep him?” Roy asks.

“If you can keep _up_ with him,” his mother says, grinning around the cigarette. “Spry little fella—you sure you can handle it, Colonel?”

“I’m fairly confident that I’m up to the challenge,” Roy says.  “Don’t lose too much sleep on my account.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Claire says, “you’ll be the one who’s not sleeping, if you get my meaning.”

Subtlety is not a particularly familiar commodity in this establishment.

Roy folds his hands and raises his eyebrows.  “I’m choosing to interpret that as your way of expressing approval.”

“Let’s be real, hon,” Claire says.  “You need to get laid.”

And people wonder where Roy acquired a tendency to be ever-so-slightly diabolical.

“I’d prefer not to think about that any more than is strictly necessary,” Madame Christmas says.

“I’d prefer not to think about you thinking about it,” Roy says.

Before they can wander any further into that linguistic labyrinth, Ed returns from his journey to the restrooms, drops back into his chair, and lays his head on Roy’s shoulder.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he whispers loudly.

Roy’s heartrate increases by a dozen beats-per-minute just considering the sorts of secrets Ed keeps.  “I’m not sure this is the best place to disc—”

“I’m a little drunk,” Ed says.

Roy attempts to maneuver both of their heads so that he can get a look at Ed’s face without putting his chin in Ed’s eye socket.  “I don’t believe that counts as a secret.”

“Does so,” Ed says.  “Don’t tell anyone, ’kay?  Someone might try to take advantage of my—y’know, my—chemically-compromised faculties and reduced motor skills.”

“I will guard your honor with my life,” Roy says, managing to shift them so that Ed’s sort of half-slumped in his arms and blinking up at him.

The blinking pauses so that Ed’s eyes can narrow.  “You’re makin’ fun of me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Roy says.

“Sassy _bastard_.”

“Insolent _brat_.”

They glare at each other for exactly nine and a half seconds before Roy cracks a grin, and Ed starts to laugh helplessly.

“Kids these days,” Madame Christmas says.

“In light of your recent, highly-classified divulgence,” Roy says to Ed, who is the easiest person in the world to address given that Roy can’t force his eyes to focus on anyone else, “I think it might be best to take you home.”

Ed’s eyebrows draw together in what appears to be an expression of genuine concern, and the fingers of his left hand pluck at Roy’s collar. “Am I embarrassing you? I’ll stop. Am I?”

“Edward, my dear,” Roy says, “you perused several photographs of me at the age of four, running naked into a lake and then resurfacing with a mouth full of pondweed. I surpassed the furthest limits of my capacity for embarrassment and have transcended the emotion entirely.”

Ed stares at him.

“You’re not,” Roy says.

Ed beams.

Roy ends up mostly-carrying him out to the car.

Despite the fact that Ed spends the majority of the drive back to the barracks unconscious and utterly insensible to external stimuli, he perks up instantly when Roy opens the car door and starts shepherding him upstairs towards his dormitory. In the hall outside his door, he turns vast and mournful eyes upward.

“What happens now?” he asks.

_Now my involuntary idolatry becomes outright worship,_ Roy thinks. _Now your blood is the tide, your breath is the wind, your skin is an unmapped world, and your eyes are the light. Now you own me, and you carry all my possibilities in the palm of your hand._

_Now I go home immensely sexually frustrated and wish I’d taken you up on your offer right there in the middle of the park._

“What happens now,” Roy says, “I leave in your extremely capable hands.”

Ed glares blearily upward and wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t mean metaphorically; I meant—I mean—for fuck’s sake, Colonel, I’ve never _done_ this before. What’s supposed to come next?”

_Us,_ Roy thinks, because he is only a man, and one whose fantasies currently have leave to fixate on Edward Elric. _Gloriously and with great fanfare, trembling all over, clinging to each other in a haze of rapture and tangled sheets._

“‘Supposed to’ is a silly notion,” Roy says.

“You’re avoiding the fucking question,” Ed says, scowling. “As usual. Look, you’re—you’re gonna have to throw me a goddamn bone every now and again if you want this to work at a… aw, _shit_ , dog idiom. Fucking—whatever. Just—help me—be—what you want. All right?”

“You are exactly what I want precisely as you are,” Roy says softly. “That’s what makes this so wonderfully dangerous.” Ed scowls. “What traditionally follows the lovely date and the lovely young man getting drunk and being escorted to his lovely lodgings, however, is…” Here goes nothing, and everything. “…a kiss goodnight?”

Ed’s gaze zeroes in on Roy’s mouth. He licks his lips and then swallows hard. “No kidding.”

“None whatsoever,” Roy says. “But—Ed, listen to me, I don’t want you ever to feel compelled by tradition, or expectation, or any such… We have to leave that out of this, if we want it to amount to anything at all. We have to be equals here, and we have to be open, and milestones are only valuable insofar as we—as you— _want_ them. If you ever feel that I’m pushing you too much, promise that you’ll tell me, a—”

Ed grabs a sturdy fistful of his tie and drags him in so violently that the only way to avoid a collision of cheekbones is to kiss him hard.

…oh, let every legible record of the known universe show that Roy wants to kiss him hard for _ever_. Ed’s charmingly clumsy at the best of times—except for when he’s fighting, and that fire-bright instinct for survival lends him so much grace—and now, tipsy on the verge of tanked, he’s a small, swaying pillar of warmth and wet and fine intentions and unusually intrusive teeth. Roy’s nose is receiving much more attention than his tongue, which would be terribly irksome if it wasn’t for the noise of unrestrained and undiluted _desire_ that rumbles out of Ed’s chest and rockets down Roy’s throat and twinges its way down the length of every nerve.

It is without a doubt the most distressing bliss he’s ever had the muddled fortune to experience.

And yet, as so often with Ed—intentions are redemptive, and the anxious insistence of his grip is hopelessly endearing. Does he still think Roy’s going to push him away? Does he still think Roy’s capable?

When the boy draws back for breath (the breathing lesson can wait until he’s sober), his eyes are cautious until Roy cups his face in both hands, strokes a thumb at each side of his jaw, and leans in to nip gently at his protruding bottom lip.

“After this,” Roy says, and his voice does not quake with all the things he’s holding back behind his sternum, “you sleep off the worst of your hangover, and then you call me later should you ever find that you’d like to do this again.”

Ed’s mouth is so soft and pink and swollen from the attention that Roy’s thoughts are half-sappy, half-sultry, and wholly overwhelming. Fortunately, Ed’s metal fingers curl into his sleeve to distract him before he can combust from the sheer indecision.

“That’s it?” Ed asks.

“That’s it,” Roy says. “We’ve set a precedent, after all.”

Ed grins. “Guess so. Huh. Well. G’night, then.”

Neither of them moves.

Ed looks down at his hand still clasping Roy’s sleeve, and then back at the door to his and Alphonse’s room. “Oh.”

Without releasing the fabric of Roy’s coat—and heavens, his grip is strong—he heads down the hallway to the appropriate door, before which he fishes out a keyring, blinks at the lock, blinks at the ring, pockets the keys again, and knocks loudly.

Momentarily, the door opens a crack, revealing a sliver of steel and a glowing eye. “…Brother?”

“Hey, Al,” Ed says. “I can’t do motor skills; I’m drunk as shit, but you can’t be mad at him, ’cause he tried to talk me out of it, like, six times.”

Silence for a few seconds, then: “So you… had a nice time?”

“Fuck, yes,” Ed says. He tugs on Roy’s sleeve. “G’night.”

“Goodnight, Edward,” Roy says; “goodnight, Alph—”

Ed hauls him in for another bruising and magnificent approximation of a kiss.

“Precedent,” Ed mumbles, breathing damply against Roy’s jaw when he pauses. “Right. See ya.”

“Sweet dreams,” Roy says—fool that he is and has been and will be.

The door swings open, admits the golden boy, clicks shut.

Roy turns on his heel. He slides his gloves out of his breast pocket, feeling the way his heart’s still thrumming like a bowstring drawn too tight and plucked like a violin. He’s a man of war; he can’t make music—can he?

And it’s unthinkable, isn’t it, for it to be Ed—to be the child he dragged down, reeled in, tore apart. For the life he sullied wittingly to be his saving grace.

It’s unthinkable, isn’t it, for a human being to have as much love to give as Edward does? To shine with it so tirelessly that Roy can play the moon and beam some measure back?

His footfalls echo on the stairs, and then the night air breathes cool across his face to welcome him back out into the anonymity of the dark. With his head down and his collar up, he’s just another man parting from his lover now—just another soul traveling by whatever light it can find.

A thousand threats, a hundred-thousand doubts, an endless list of miseries poised before him on the verge of possibility—but somehow he’s not afraid.

Roy has had few enough miracles in his life that he intends to treasure this one.


End file.
